Page 52 of The Rejected Omega
“Who is this compatible alpha? Anyone I know?”
“Connor Masters.”
Roy’s mouth falls open. “Connor Masters, your childhood best friend, muscled hunk, jock of the year, filthy rich Connor Masters?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Holy shit, Crane. You’ve been holding out on me. Youdon’twant to tap that? Are you still doing that creepy stoic celibate thing?”
“It’s…complicated.”
“This seems like an extreme solution. The semester’s almost over—you can’t manage a few more weeks? Or better yet, ride his dick into dust?”
I snort. Trust Roy to bring some much-needed levity to the situation.
“My heat is soon. I’m not going to be able to put it off this time.”
“And you don’t want to end up doing the two-person tango with your old buddy, Meaty Masters? I bet his knot is huge.”
A flush runs down my neck at the mental image. “No,” I croak.
“Shit. You are close, huh? Fine, I’ll do it. But I refuse to rub you with my spunk—I have to draw the line somewhere. This will send a message, though.”
Roy takes my hands and rubs my wrists against the scent glands on his neck. Then he licks my wrists for good measure, and immediately begins spitting and sticking out his tongue like he’s tasted the wrong end of a can of compressed air.
“God, it's like you sprayed it in my mouth.”
I laugh. “I’m sorry. Thank you so much.”
It’s one of the least sexy exchanges I’ve ever been privy to, even compared to those awkward teen designation comedies.
Roy pulls the collar of his sweater over his nose and pinches it shut.
“Wait. What do I smell like to you?”
“You know in middle school, when girls would hose themselves down in fruity body spray?”
“Unfortunately.”
“You smell like you’ve been marinating in off-brand cucumber melon.”
I grimace. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s revolting. I may have to puke in your bushes when I leave.”
“Alright. Try the neck.”
Roy lowers his sweater, scoots toward me, and starts to lower his mouth to my neck. His scent is repulsive. When his lips meet my skin, I shudder and pull away. My stomach roils.
I wring out my hands and try to suppress the feeling of bugs crawling all over my skin.
He slides back away from me on the couch. “Here. I have an idea. Remember, you asked for this.”
Roy spits a glob of clear saliva into his palm and rubs his hands together.
“That’s disgusting.”
He wiggles his fingers at me, strings of saliva stretching between them. Then he smacks his hands against the sides of my neck and pats the spit into my glands.
